Made with Love, or Percocet
by Elske
Summary: Written for torchil, who wanted Lassy taking care of a sick Shawn. Shassie slash, with Gus/Lauren Lassiter in the background.


[[Author's Notes:

This is the first of my belated Christmas gift!fics, written for the lovely torchil on , who requested "Lassie caring for a sick Shawn". I hope injured!Shawn is close enough. ;) "Garden and Gun" is a real magazine, and one that I found hilarious the last time I was in the hospital awaiting surgery. The television programme that Lassy and Carlton are watching here is "Due South", for the record, because it is shiny. Torchil, hope you like this!

Cheers, Elske]]

Carlton Lassiter scowls, then grudgingly loops an arm around Shawn Spencer's shoulder, in order to help the younger man hobble into the local Urgent Care.

"I don't know why you're so grumpy, Lassipants, I'm the one that's injured. I'm the one that's possibly dying. And I did it to save your life, too," Spencer mutters.

Carlton gives him a dirty look. "You're not dying. I don't think anything's broken. And you were hardly saving my life- you tripped answering the door for the UPS man. Who was, for some reason I still don't understand, delivering DVDs you ordered with Guster's credit card to _my_ house."

"Dude. My best friend is busy hooking up with your sister. Therefore you are honor bound to entertain me in his absence. It's, like, guy code."

"…no, I think guy code has me honor bound to punch you in the nose if you ever use the phrase 'busy hooking up with my sister' ever again," Carlton points out, with another poisonous glare, and Spencer just grins.

"I've heard it both ways. So if I'm not dying, when we're done here, you're going to take me back to your place and make me cinnamon toast with the crusts cut off while I recuperate, right?"

Carlton is saved from having to answer that question by the appearance of one of the medical assistants asking what happened: Spencer answers, is whisked away to x-ray in a wheelchair, and Carlton is left to sit in the waiting room and peruse the selection of outdated magazines, all the while trying not to think about how Shawn Spencer is managing so smoothly to integrate himself into his life. Ever since Lauren finished her degree and moved back to town – and somehow managed to finally convince Guster to date her – it's as though Shawn's been at his side every single day. And it's not nearly as irritating as Carlton would have thought it would be. Every day it's becoming more and more difficult to keep scowling, to keep up his defenses, to not get dragged down into the whirlpool of insanity that is Shawn Spencer (to say nothing of the way he's curiously suddenly hyperaware of every time the other man _touches_ him, which is either far too often or not often enough and, damnit, he is too old for sexual confusion, thankyouverymuch.)

In the dregs of womanly magazines and weeks old newspapers is something called "Garden and Gun", and that's interesting enough to keep at least a little of Carlton's attention: that's the magazine he's still holding when Spencer returns, on crutches, to the lobby.

"Hey Lassydear!" he calls out, and Carlton flinches and drops his magazine back into the pile before getting to his feet. "It's the tendon at the top of my foot, it's sprained, and I'm going to live but I definitely need to stay with you because there's no way I'm going to be able to deal with all the stairs at my place."

"Don't you live in a first floor dry-cleaners?"

"Don't be ants at a picnic, Lassy. You need to take me home and make me a pineapple smoothie. And cinnamon toast. Cinnamon toast is crucial to my recovery, right doctor?" He turns to give an irresistible pout at the nurse receptionist, who just laughs.

"Of course it is. You might want these too," and she holds out a bottle of pain-killers.

"I never take those. Come on Lassy, I'll race you to the car!" He hobbles towards the door.

Carlton shakes his head, then takes the bottle of pills from the nurse, drops them in his pocket, and follows Spencer to the car.

[[*******]]

"Just sit there. And watch the pretty Mountie. And let me make your stupid cinnamon toast," Carlton implores, using one hand to shove Spencer into a corner of the couch.

"With the crusts cut off," Spencer reminds him. He reaches for the remote control, bumps his foot, then flinches. "Lassy, this really hurts. "

Carlton, remembering the bottle of pills in his pocket, smiles to himself. "You'll be feeling better soon. Watch your stupid tv show and I'll make your stupid toast."

Hidden from Spencer's view in the kitchen, he adds two Percocet to the pineapples and ice-cream in the blender, and there is a part of him that thinks it's a bit unethical to actually _drug_ Spencer, but it's for his own good and the pills were prescribed, after all. When he returns to the living-room with Spencer's sick person snacks, he's strangely contented to sit at Spencer's side and listen to him narrate what's going on in the tv show in between bites of cinnamon toast and sips of his pineapple smoothie.

"You know, Lassy? You were totally right. I am feeling better. Is it because you made this with love?" He takes one last sip from the now-empty smoothie cup.

"Love?" Carlton does his best to snort contemptuously. "Try Percocet. I knew you'd need the pain pills."

"Mmm." Spencer stretches out, actually plops his head in a shocked Carlton's lap. "So you do love me then."

"Who said anything about love?" Carlton recoils a bit, but Spencer just stares sleepy-eyed up at him.

"I did. I probably shouldn't have. In fact I am totally going to regret telling you I love you. Did I just tell you that I loved you?"

"I thought you loved O'Hara," mumbles Carlton, thinking of the years he's spent watching Spencer flirting with his partner.

Spencer yawns. "I've heard it both ways. Has anyone ever told you that you make an awesome pillow? 'Cause you totally make an awesome pillow. Goodnight Lassydear," and Spencer yawns again, exaggeratedly, closes his eyes.

(Carlton spends far too long trying to figure out what this all means, then abandons thinking in favor of napping, because clearly confessions made under the influence of painkillers don't count.)


End file.
